Arthur glanced at Rory, and saw his own surprise mirrored in his face.
“Take care of each other,” said Gwen, and went back to the waiting Ellis.
Chapter Thirty
Jade sat up front with Arthur on the drive to Paris while Rory climbed in the back with Zhang. The convertible made it too loud to talk, but the air was warm, and the stars stretched endlessly over their heads as they drove through the empty countryside.
Rory watched as the country became the outskirts of Paris, and then the city. His body ached, but his mind kept replaying what Gwen had seen.
Arthur had given Rory some of his aura. To keep.
Forever.
Arthur parked the Delage a few blocks from the cabaret. Jade offered to call and report its location to the police, so it could be returned to the driver.
They left Jade and Zhang at the phone in the cabaret’s packed lobby. A man was singing in French, drums and a piano accompanying him.
Arthur’s steps were jerky and hesitant, but he followed as Rory led the way upstairs, to their tiny room. They’d need food, and Rory wanted to sleep for about a million years.
But first, he wanted to talk.
His newsboy cap was where he’d left it, upside down on the desk by the open window overlooking the Paris rooftops. The night breeze wafting into their room ruffled his hair.
Maybe with Arthur’s aura in his magic, he’d have enough control over the wind to cool their room in summer. That was a marvel, even thinking about using his magic for something so delicate.
Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be using fifteenth-century magic as his personal fan. He pulled off the Tempest Ring and set it carefully inside the cap and then took a seat on the edge of the bed.
Arthur was still standing frozen in the doorway.
“C’mere,” said Rory. “C’mon, Ace, come talk to me.”
But Arthur didn’t move. “How can you want to?” he whispered. “How can you even stand to be around me? I hit you—”
“No,” said Rory. “Becker hit me. You were just his weapon.”
Arthur bit his lip. “Perhaps,” he said, voice tight with pain. “But it’s not that easy—”
“Course it’s not,” Rory said, more gently. “But you’re a victim too. He hurt you in the worst way he could’ve.”
Arthur winced. He looked down the hall, then stepped into their room and carefully closed the door. “I’d have taken a thousand blows myself before one swing at you,” he said, still turned to the side, not looking at Rory. “And I don’t understand how you can bear my company.”
“I keep telling you,” said Rory. “I keep telling everyone. If there’s something I get, it’s magic screwing with you.”
He rested his hands on the bed behind him, leaning back. “I lost three weeks of my life to magic in that asylum. I lost countless hours and days after that. When I first got to Hell’s Kitchen, Mrs. B would have to watch me scry and shake me out of it if I went too long. We would’ve given up on the whole antiques shop plan if her clairvoyant sister hadn’t promised us that I was gonna get better control.”
He softened his voice. “So when I say,it wasn’t you, it was magic, I know that all the way down to my bones. Because magic had ruined my life. Until I met you.”
Arthur’s shoulders were still hunched. But finally, he looked over at Rory, really looked at him, with haunted eyes.
“C’mere,” Rory said again.
Arthur covered his face. “Oh Christ, I’m doing it again, I’m making you comfort me when you’re the victim.”
“We’re both victims,” said Rory. “C’mon.”
Arthur huffed. But he didn’t argue. After a long moment, he took the one step to the bed, stopping before he and Rory touched and standing uncertainly in front of him.
Rory reached for his hand and Arthur let him take it. As gently as he could, he ran his fingers over Arthur’s knuckles. The blood was gone, washed off at the manor, but even clean, they were scraped and bruised, and Rory had to push down a surge of anger that someone had turned his kind man into a weapon. “My magic’s in you forever now.”
